The small man in the big chair turned to face Adachi. "Superintendent," he said, "do you have all the resources you need?"
"Yes, I do, Deputy Superintendent-General-san," said Adachi. "I have my own department, additional manpower seconded to me as it may be required, and the work of the technical support services has been exemplary." Internally, he was taken aback. It seemed he was being both warned off and offered help. It was typical of the Spider, extremely confusing.
The DSG made an approving gesture. "It is important that this matter be resolved satisfactorily."
Adachi agreed respectfully. He had the feeling that the operative word was ‘satisfactorily.’
The Spider changed the subject, or appeared to do so. "I was examining the latest crime statistics," he said. "I am concerned about the foreign element. Our own Japanese criminals behave predictably and they know how far they can go. Foreigners have no respect for authority. Their motives are often obscure. Their behavior is frequently impermissible."
Adachi agreed again. "Foreigners can indeed be difficult, and yet some are required for the economy."
"Korean criminals are a particular problem, I have noticed," said the Spider. "They have a tendency towards violence." He looked at Adachi. "Sometimes random violence. They can be a cruel people. They lack adequate respect for office and position." He rose to indicate that the interview was over.
Adachi bowed deeply and left. The DSG might be suggesting he clean up the whole Hodama business by framing some obliging Koreans; he might have remembered Hodama's early years in Korea and be suggesting a line of inquiry; he might merely have been making polite conversation. Adachi was not about to ask exactly what he meant. If the DSG had wanted to be specific he would have been. And more to the point, it was not appropriate to question a superior. Japan was a disciplined and hierarchical organization. Where would anyone be if sufficient respect for one's superiors was not shown?
Still, thought Adachi, there are times... He felt vaguely frustrated. He went down to the dojo, found a kendo partner, and worked out energetically for an hour. Bashing somebody over the head with a split bamboo cane meant loosely to simulate a katana, the long sword, while being hit as little as possible yourself was an excellent way to restore equanimity.
After the session, he bathed and went back to work refreshed. The Spider's observations he stored in the back of his mind. The pile on his desk had become even higher. There was work to be done.
5
Connemara RegionalHospitaclass="underline"
Intensive Care Unit
January 4
A terrible feeling suffused him.
He could not identify the feeling, nor did he understand where he was or what had happened. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He opened his eyes. He had no sense of place or time or reason.
Brightness. Noises. Electronic noises. Strange breathing sounds. He was not breathing! Terror; absolute terror. Darkness. Sadness. Blackness. Nothing.
A little peace.
A time for nightmares. He awoke again, choking, and knew only despair. He fainted.
* * * * *
Dr. Linda Foley was working with the senior intensive care nurse, Kathleen Burke. Fitzduane would have one-to-one attention until he left ICU. If he left ICU.
Linda Foley had a sense of unease when she looked at her patient. Something was definitely wrong, not just the physical things but something else. Dr. Foley tended to feel this kind of thing. It was a gift and it was a burden.
Working together, they checked his BP and blood gases through the arterial line; checked his CVP; checked his oxygen levels; checked his air entry with a stethoscope; watched the monitors.
Linda Foley noticed that Fitzduane had high blood pressure and a fast pulse rate. "He's in serious pain," she said, "poor sod." She prescribed morphine in the form of Cyclimorph.
Kathleen, concerned about his body temperature, added some blankets. She checked his wounds for oozing through the dressings, and changed them where necessary.
Foley looked around the futuristic-looking room as if for inspiration, and moved her neck to try to release some of the tension. Her muscles ached. She was bloody tired and too much black coffee was fraying her nerves, but she was not going to quit on this one until it felt right. And so far, it did not. No, something was decidedly wrong.
He had been drifting in and out of consciousness. He was gradually regaining some — albeit drug-laden — awareness. It was going to be a frightening awakening. In her opinion, the intensive care unit was about as un-people-friendly as could be. It was a monument to hygiene and advanced technology, but it did nothing for the human psyche. It was overlit and cold and sterile and full of cables and bleeping monitors, and it was truly terrifying to wake up in, even if you knew you were being treated.
In Fitzduane's case, he would have no sense of continuity. He had been ripped from his normal life, massively traumatized and then cast ashore in this alien environment. He would be paranoid and disoriented. All his systems — cardiovascular, respiratory, renal, immune — had mounted an immense physiological response to his injuries, and the effect would be total mental and physical exhaustion. To make matters worse, the first people he'd see would be masked and gowned.
He would see only eyes.
His main reassurance would come from the ICU staff's voices. Voices in ICU were vital. They provided the human element, the link to the human spirit. In Linda Foley's experience, recovery was only partly physical; it was predominantly a matter of the mind... shit, that was it. This patient's spirit was damaged in some way. How she knew it, she could not say, but that was it. He lacked the will to recover.
In consideration of his high blood pressure and low body temperature, Foley had kept him on the ventilator, the life-support machine, for a further six hours after surgery and then had gradually weaned him off. He was now breathing for himself with an oxygen mask over his face. He had been wearing it for two hours. It would soon be time to remove it.
Fitzduane opened his eyes again. Kathleen leaned over him and spoke: "Hello, Hugo. I'm Kathleen. You've had an operation, and all went well."
Fitzduane eyes filled with tears. His vision was blurred and his throat was dry and sore. He tried to speak. No sound came out. Kathleen moistened his lips with a small sponge.
A gasping sound came out. Kathleen bent closer. He spoke again, and then consciousness faded.
"What did he say?" said Linda Foley.
Kathleen looked puzzled. "Boots or roots," she said. "He said he — they — were dead, I think. He's still drugged to the eyeballs. He's just rambling."